Straw Men
by Illeana Starbright
Summary: Shepherd may be dead, but the 141's trouble is far from over. They've been declared disavowed by a man who started a war for his own glory and Makarov won't stop hunting them until they're all dead. Sequel to The 141. Second in the Unnatural Series.
1. Prologue

_Author's_ _Note:_ For those of you just joining me with this story, this is the second in a series, the first being The 141 and it is advisable that you read that story before you read this one. Also, a quick note on the title, Straw Man is a logical fallacy committed when one person misrepresents what the other person argued in order to make it easier to defeat. In other words, they attack the straw man instead of the actual person's argument. It just felt kind of appropriate. Standard fanfiction disclaimer applies, I own nothing, but hopefully you enjoy the story anyway!

* * *

 _August 17, 2009_

 _Loyalist Safehouse, Northern India_

 _Yuri Alkaev_

* * *

Leaning against the door frame of the front doorway, Yuri brought the cigarette away from his lips and blew the smoke into the warm night sky. The chaos that had been going on behind him since the arrival of Nikolai's two soldier friends had died down, leaving only the quiet noise of the small Indian town at nighttime to filter around him. He took another drag on the cigarette, trying to calm his growing nerves. After being shot just before the massacre at Zakhaev International Airport, Yuri had fled the hospital to India, knowing that if Makarov would likely have heard about his survival and be hunting him. He had healed here, keeping an eye on the news while Nikolai's loyalist friends kept watch for danger.

Nikolai and Yuri had known one another since they were young and growing up in the same village. The two had chosen different methods to escape, Nikolai becoming a military pilot and Yuri joining the Spetznaz, but the two had kept in contact over the years. It had been Nikolai who had found a defeated and disillusioned Yuri in a Moscow hospital and transferred him to India where he would be safe to recover from the trauma and to plot his revenge. "Live, my friend," Nikolai had told him when Yuri had protested being moved, already resigned to his fate. "And make Makarov pay for what he has done."

Footsteps approached from the entryway behind Yuri as the former Spetznaz agent blew out another cloud of smoke. Yuri did not bother to turn, knowing exactly who was coming. Levi and the others might tolerate him, for the sake of the knowledge he brought to the Loyalist group, but none of them liked him enough to approach him. That left only one person to break him from his dark thoughts, not that the attempt would likely be successful. "I thought you said you had stopped," Nikolai said, voice full of good humor despite the day's events.

"I did," Yuri agreed, taking another drag on the cigarette. He had stopped smoking years ago, when he joined the Spetznaz, but as he had begun to see the truth of what Makarov was doing, he had picked up the bad habit again.

"It will kill you sooner," Nikolai said, no accusation in his voice. Yuri's friend was not one to spread accusations, even when he likely should have. For most of his life, the former Spetznaz agent had found it comforting, but now it irked him. He felt as if someone should have been throwing angry allegations at him. After the events of the past few years it would be nothing less than he deserved, and Nikolai's passive, almost sympathetic approach to his crimes irritated him. What right did Nikolai have to be forgiving when his friend had betrayed all the ideals he stood for?

"I'm not likely to live long enough for it to kill me," he retorted, flicking the still smouldering cigarette into the dusty Indian road. "Your friend Levi informed me that my hospital records have been hacked. Makarov will be hunting me."

"He could not kill you once, my friend. What makes you think he can manage to attempt it a second time?"

"He won't leave me to bleed out the second time," Yuri countered. "He'll stay to ensure I die, and then likely burn the body."

He removed the cigarette carton from a pocket and brought out a fresh one, lighting it as Nikolai said, "With optimism such as that it is a wonder that our mother nation is not at your feet begging you to lead us into a new era."

"Optimism is a foolish man's attempt to avoid the inevitable," was Yuri's pragmatic response. He took a drag on the cigarette and blew the smoke out before adding. "And I am not a foolish man." He caught a glimpse of Nikolai's amused head shake before taking another drag on his cigarette.

The peaceful sounds of the night surrounded them once more, but they were unable to soothe Yuri into a calmer state. He knew that Makarov was not only hunting him, but also the two soldiers his friend had brought here. To linger in India was to court disaster, but the injured one would not be easy to move, so linger they must. Yuri knew disaster would fall on their heads soon enough, and he intended to be ready for it even if he must stay awake all night to ensure their safety.

"I have a favor to ask of you," Nikolai said at last and Yuri blew out a mouthful of smoke before turning to look at his friend, smouldering cigarette held carefully between two fingers. "Some of Soap and Price's friends survived the general's attack and are waiting in a safehouse in Georgia. I must go to collect them at first light."

"What does this have to do with me?" Yuri replied, turning back towards the road and taking another drag of the cigarette, hoping vainly that the nicotine would calm his nerves.

"Trouble will come here soon," was Nikolai's reply. "You and I both know this. When it comes, Price and Soap will need help getting out. I only ask that you assist them in any way that you can."

"They will hate me," Yuri warned. "When they discover what I have done."

"And they are your way to find Makarov," Nikolai countered, but his eyes were worried. "Will you help with this?"

"Da," Yuri agreed, turning back to the front and blowing out a fresh cloud of smoke. "I will."

Sensing that the conversation was over, Nikolai turned and left the doorway. Yuri continued his smoking as if he'd never been interrupted, blue eyes scanning his surroundings. The tension in his shoulders remained, even when Vitaly, one of Levi's younger men, came to say Nikolai had instructed him to replace Yuri in keeping watch. The former Spetznaz agent slept shallowly that night, and was up at the break of dawn.

Yuri didn't bother to say farewell to Nikolai. He was nothing, if not a realistic man, and he knew that either his friend would return or he wouldn't. Saying a few words to him, as if for look, wouldn't ensure either outcome. Furthermore, Yuri was never one with farewells, so while many of the Loyalist saw Nikolai off, he wandered the halls of the safehouse searching for weak points. He did this until Inessa, one of the few woman in the area and a very capable doctor, found him. "What are you doing wandering about like a lost child?" she demanded, slim hand smacking his shoulder reprovingly. "You will open your wound again." She stepped back to look at him, dark eyes disapproving, and then ordered, "Come with me."

He followed her, a slim smile crossing his face for an instant. Inessa reminded him of his hardworking mother in the time before his drunkard of a father had murdered her. They both had sweet natures hidden under dragon like tempers and neither one was afraid to do what was necessary. In this case, Yuri had no doubt that the small woman would drag him by the ear to the infirmary if necessary.

The two of them entered the sick bay, Yuri taking in the view of the more wounded soldier lying still on a bed. His chest was rising and falling slowly with each breath, eyes flickering to and fro erratically behind closed lids, but otherwise he remained still. His companion was sitting in an uncomfortable looking folding chair next to the bed, eyes fixed on Yuri and Inessa. "Sit," the small woman ordered Yuri, unbothered by the staring. The former Spetznaz agent sat in the indicated chair and waited while she rustled around, gathering what materials she might need.

After a minute of silence, Inessa turned to him and ordered, "Shirt off." Many men would have commented with some crude innuendo in the hopes to make Inessa blush but Yuri had more respect for her than that. He was also fairly certain that she would throw anyone who tried that out a window. Yuri removed his shirt, revealing a slightly reddened bandage around his midsection. She scowled at the sight and replied, " _See._ This is what happens when you don't rest like you are supposed to." She unwound the bandages and clucked her tongue over the state of his stitches before patching him up again and re wrapping his midsection.

Yuri rose with a nod, catching a glimpse of a few silver strands in her dark brown hair, and she graced him with a slim smile before turning her attention towards her other patients. The former Spetznaz agent left the room while she was fussing over her other patients, roaming the halls again. Despite the ache where Makarov had shot him, Yuri had absolutely no intention of resting. Trouble was coming, and he was going to be ready for it.


	2. One

_August 18, 2009_

 _Manhattan, New York_

 _Derek "Frost" Westbrook_

* * *

 _"Good hunting," he says, eyes fixed on his captain's._  
 _MacTavish hesitates for a brief instant and then promises, "I'll see you on the other side." Frost doesn't doubt him. He's been part of the 141 for a year, and he knows that pack or not MacTavish will find him once all this is over with._

 _He allows the captain to get out of sight before bellowing, "Man down!" For a brief moment, in the chaos going around him, no one answers and he feels a rush of panic. Then a figure looms over him and he flinches._

 _"Easy man," a voice says and a fairly young guy with bright red hair kneels next to him. "I'm a friendly." The man knelt next to him, prodding his wound and then wincing. "Medic!" he bellowed but there wasn't an answer. The young man cussed under his breath, eyes suddenly glowing gold, and said, "I hope you have the right genes."_

 _Before Frost could even question what his rescuer was talking about, sharp teeth were sinking into his shoulder. For a moment he was trapped in stunned silence. Then burning pain like he'd never felt before washed over him. Frost opened his mouth and screamed, body convulsing. A moment later, the flow of blood from his wound slowed and his eyes glowed gold._

"Frost!" a voice yelled and Frost forced blue eyes open to see the roof of a Humvee almost directly above him, his seat belt the only thing keeping him in his seat. It took him a moment to remember that he was in New York now, not Afghanistan. He'd been bitten two days ago in an attempt to save his life that had only worked because of dormant genes in his body. Popular fiction could say what it liked, but a person couldn't just become a werewolf by being bitten. The only people susceptible to becoming one were people who were only one or two generations removed from being wolves themselves.

After being bitten, a medic had coolly informed him that his wounds would be healed within the next twenty-four hours as a side effect, Frost had been transferred back to the US. Since people in the states had decided, by that point, that the 141 were traitors and had disavowed them, Frost had been reassigned to Delta, which was rather underwhelming the second time around. He'd been placed on Team Metal, who'd just lost their fourth member a week earlier, and they'd all been ordered to deal with the change before being thrown out into New York.  
Sandman, the team leader, along with Truck and Grinch, were all wolves. This wasn't particularly surprising, because Delta teams had a tendency to be packs. In her first tour as Delta, Frost had only been vaguely aware of that fact because he'd been human. Things like pack hierarchy hadn't bothered him. Now that he'd been changed, he was beginning to notice just how important things like that were, and just how much of an outsider he was to Metal.

"Frost," Sandman's voice snapped again and Frost forced his scattered mind to focus. This might not have been his team, but that didn't mean he got to pout about it and forget how to do his job. "Get switched on," came the order. "We gotta move, now!"

Frost squirmed free, grabbing his M4A1, and clambered awkwardly out of the Humvee. Helicopters whirred everywhere in the sky above, a couple missiles impacting with a building and sending large chunks of debris fall towards the street below. After several days of fighting, Manhattan was a mess of wreckage, dead bodies, and wailing police sirens. At the moment, there were no Russians in sight but there was plenty of cover and Frost had learned a long time ago that an area was never clear until someone confirmed it was.

Sandman climbed out of the Humvee, leaving the dead driver still hanging inside, and tossed Frost a mag. The former 141 soldier chambered it without looking as Sandman called, "The jammer's 500 meters north. We'll leg it from here. Let's go! Grinch, Truck, you up?"

"We're good," Grinch called back, giving them a cheerful middle finger salute from near the wreckage of the Humvee behind them when Frost chanced a glance back.

In the past couple days, Frost hadn't really bothered to get to know his new team. He'd been too busy worrying about the 141 and then fighting for his life against yet more Russians, this time in New York instead of Russia, to really worry about it. He'd been told their real names at one point but he was lucky he even remembered their call sign's, not that he used them. The dislike and distrust his new teammates had for him was thick enough that Frost felt like he could cut into it with a combat knife and still not get through it. On the plus side, none of them had tried to kill him yet so at least they were a step up from the recently deceased Shepherd.

Team Metal moved forward, Frost searching for any sign of movement. They'd been out of Manhattan for the past day, fighting with other units until Overlord had called them in on a mission to take out a jammer. With the jammer in place, air support couldn't get into the city and New York would fall. The powers that be had decided the city couldn't fall, thus Delta to the rescue, or something like that. Honestly, Frost was a little fuzzy on specifics with the moment and had too much on his mind to worry to much about it.

"Russian armor incoming," Grinch yelled.

Frost was already ducking for cover as Truck bellowed, "Take cover, take cover!" As the GAZ-2975 came into view Frost peeked over the top of the chunk of concrete he was hiding behind, had a shot at the gunner, and took it. He was rewarded with a dead man slumping in his seat. He couldn't keep a bead on the driver but he worked with the rest of Metal to take out the troops following the quickly leaving Russian armor.

"Friendlies! Hold your fire," Sandman bellowed.

Frost cautiously rose from his hiding spot in time to see a group of Rangers run into the intersection. as Truck called, "That mean's don't shoot 'em Grinch."

"No shit," was Grinch's annoyed sounding reply and Frost bit down a snicker. He already wasn't welcome here. The last thing he needed to do was antagonize his temporary teammates.

The Rangers paused for a moment to catch their breath and their bearings, allowing Metal to move forward to meet them. "Delta?" one of the older looking men called, weapon at the ready.

"Metal 0-1," Sandman replied in confirmation and the man nodded.

"Sergeant Foley," the man offered, lowering his weapon a little.

"Sandman," the Delta leader replied, eyes scanning the small unit. "This all of you?"

"Yes sir," was Foley's response. "We just came outta evac duty in Arcadia."

"Messy situation," Grinch commented.

"No kidding," was the response from a man near Foley's left shoulder. Frost winced at that. He'd heard about the destruction Price's commandeered missile had wreaked since he'd been brought stateside, but hearing from witnesses of the event made him cringe. He'd been there. He should have stopped it instead of standing there like an idiot.

"This is Corporal Dunn," Foley said, indicating the man who'd spoken. "The others are Ramirez and Allen."

"Grinch, Truck, and...Frost," Sandman said, the awkward pause in front of Frost's name making it perfectly clear who wasn't a welcome member of the team. "We're Metal, priority destroy the jammer."

"Good," Foley replied. "Overlord sent us as as backup to the exchange building."

"Copy that," Sandman acknowledged. "Metal, move out!"

They advanced forward to Broad Street, the sign still somehow intact and the damaged Stock Exchange building came into view. Frost felt his stomach sink at the sight. There was just something very wrong about seeing such a prominent part of the US in ruins. "Eyes on the Exchange," Sandman bellowed. "Left side, dead ahead!"

"Roger, I see it," was Truck's response and Frost's eyes narrowed as they fell on the Russians spread out near their target area. Obviously the enemy knew the jammer was keeping them safe and they intended to protect it from harm.

"Contact front," Grinch yelled. "Hostiles in the open!" Frost caught a glimpse of the man's stupid backwards baseball hat ducking down as the Russians opened fire on the incoming troops. Ramirez hunkered down near Truck while Foley and Dunn ducked around a column and Allen settled in near Frost.

The two rose in turn, working on taking out the enemy, until Truck shouted, "Heads up! Bird incoming!"

"Get off the street," Sandman snapped. "Go right, go right!"

"Rangers to the left," Foley yelled at the same time and Frost felt his head spin for a moment. It had been a while since he'd had more than Ghost and MacTavish giving orders in a language he could actually recognize, and his newly enhanced senses were helping things.

"C'mon Frost, let's go," Sandman snarled, making him scramble automatically for cover, slipping into the Broad Street entrance of the Phillipe Starck building.

"You trying to get killed out there, man?" Grinch demanded as Frost ducked inside but he just shook his head in response, not in the mood to respond. Besides, how did someone explain that they froze because there was too much noise and it'd been so long since he'd answered to an American?

"So what's the game plan?" Truck asked, redirecting the attention from Frost's humiliation and towards their real goal.

"Same as before," was Sandman's brusque reply. "Burn the jammer, kill the bad guys."

"I like it," Grinch replied and the corner of Frost's mouth quirked up in a slight grin. He'd thought the 141 was crazy with their standard Plan B being blow things up and shoot anyone trying to kill you after, but it wasn't really much different than this plan. Apparently, some things were universal.

"Up the stairs," Sandman ordered. "On me! Grinch, Truck, hold here till my signal. Frost, with me."

Frost had brief moment to wonder whether Sandman was trying to get him killed or not before following the man up the stairs gun held ready. "Rog'," was Grinch's reply from somewhere behind but Frost didn't dare look back. He didn't want to get shot in the back of the head. It would be a terribly embarrassing way to die.

They paused at the top of the stairs for Sandman to kick down the door and then stepped on to a pile of rubble. Sandman called Truck and Grinch up without stopping, Frost keeping an eye out for danger. Manhattan was crawling with Russians and he didn't doubt that that they would encounter more soon. Sure enough, rounding a corner brought in to sight a downed Hind that had taken out part of a lower floor before settling to rest in a heap of twisted metal across part of a floor. Hovering in the space it had probably occupied some time before its crash was another Hind, this one flying and with Russians firing out of it. Frost let out a groan at the sight and ducked back around the corner as Sandman yelled, "Threat, twelve o'clock, high!" Part of Frost desperately wanted to make some smart aleck comment but he bit it back as he worked on taking on the Russians.

They moved forward after the still mobile Hind retreated, skirting the massive hole in the wall and continuing in the direction of the Exchange. Frost kept his eyes on Sandman's back as they slipped first into a hall and then down a set of stairs that were probably designed to be a fire escape considering the bland cement walls. "Grinch, Truck, tighten up," Metal's leader murmured over their comms. "Maintain the timeline. We need to hit the Exchange." The sound of voices drifted up towards them, muffled by cement walls and corners, and possibly a door, causing Sandman to pause for a moment, listening. "Multiple voices, alley behind the door," he said as he picked up his pace again, leaving Frost to scramble to follow. After a year of learning the patterns of just about everyone in the 141, it was difficult to be following someone new again and trying to guess where they'd stop.

"Frost, toss a nine-banger," came the order when they reached the bottom of the stairs, Sandman easy the door open. Frost tossed the 9-bang easily, grinning when the bursts sent the Russians into a disoriented panic. "Move! Move!" Sandman yelled but Frost was already focusing on taking out the enemy with easy of long practice. This was something the 141 did often, which meant he'd had plenty of practice. Especially since he'd shot a hostage in the arm during his first mission as an FNG. Ghost had run him through training exercises of a similar nature for a good month afterwards and Frost had still been wary enough about his position on the team that he hadn't been willing to get mouthy about it. In some ways, with this demotion back to Delta, he felt like he was in that position all over again.

The team stepped out into the alley and Sandman said, "This route should take us back on to Wall Street. Jammer's not far. Watch the windows and doors, double-check the shadows." They followed his lead into another building and up yet another set of stairs which stopped above a jewelry store.

"Truck, you getting anything on comms?" Grinch asked from behind Frost in a low voice.

"Nothing back static," came Truck's response. "The jammer's got us in the dark."

"Hold up," Sandman ordered, cutting off anything else Truck might have been planning to say as they neared the top of the stairs. "Quiet."

Frost froze obediently, body tense, and he could practically feel the others doing the same behind him. They hiked in a crouch up the last few stairs, Grinch pausing to peer into the ransacked store below. "Shooters in the store below," the man murmured. "Switch 'em off?"

"Roger that," Sandman said and Frost settled into a more stable crouch before aiming and taking fire at the first Russian in his sights. The first few shots sent the Russians scrambling for cover, making it difficult to take them out. "Grinch, take overwatch while we clear the store," Sandman ordered, already heading for the stairs, and Frost scrambled after him, knowing the longer he was on the stairs, the more of a target he'd be.

"I'm on it," Grinch replied, cheerfully taking out a Russian who'd stood and attempted to take out Truck.

As if summoned by the sounds of shooting, more Russian poured in through massive holes in the outer wall of the store, forcing the three men to rush for cover the instant Truck's boots hit the main floor. "Contact," Sandman was yelling, voice easily cutting through the growing din. "Take cover! Frost, throw some frags."

"As if I'm some FNG," Frost muttered low enough that he knew the comms wouldn't be picking up before obligingly tossing a frag out. Obviously some Russian decided to return the favor because a moment later another frag bounced toward him, close enough that he doubted he was going to be able to get out of range in time. Not bothering to waste the breath required for cursing, he lunged forward and chucked the frag back towards enemy territory, hoping he didn't accidentally hit one of his new teammates with it. Sorry didn't cut it when you'd just accidentally killed someone's best friend and brother in arms with a frag.

"Head west to the street," Sandman snapped the instant the store was clear. "Go!"

They stepped out on to the main street, which was in worse condition than the store, they practically collided with another Delta Force team. Frost winced initial when he counted only three members, and then breathed out a sigh of relief when the fourth emerged. "Hold fire," Sandman snapped. "Anvil team approaching." Then he jogged across the empty space to great the leader of the other team while Grinch and Truck grinned and called out greetings, leaving Frost feeling down heartened and like an outcast. "Anybody hit?" Sandman asked, straight to business.

"We're good," the other man replied with a grin, scanning Metal before his eyes paused on Frost. "Who's the newbie?"

"Frost," came Sandman's clipped reply. "What's the sit-rep on mid-town?"

"Straight to business as usual," came the amused response. "The Russians have mid-town locked down. They're kicking out ass so we can't get through!"

"Any word on air support?"

"Still nothing. Guidance systems are scrambled. We need to get that jammer down."

"Then let's move," came the order.

"Don't worry kid," Anvil's leader informed Frost. "He'll warm up to you soon enough." Frost bit down on a snide, turning to follow the others down Wall Street..

"Grizzly's right, man," a new voice said near his elbow and Frost almost stabbed the person on reflex. "They'll warm up eventually. It's just, Rocket was pack and they're still dealing with losing him."

"I know the feeling," Frost murmured, thinking about Royce and Meat lying dead somewhere in Rio, and all the others dead at Makarov's safehouse and the boneyard because of one man's agenda.

"I'm Worm by the way," the man said as they ducked behind cover under a hail of fresh Russian fire.

"Frost," he replied. "But you already heard that."

Worm grinned at him before Sandman's yell of "They're dug in" sent them both into action. "Frost, get on the XM25 and flush 'em out."

"Want me to take out the entire Russian army while I'm at it?" Frost grumbled, forgetting for a brief moment that this wasn't the 141 and he wasn't going to get a laugh or a snide response back.

"Just do it," Sandman barked and Frost bit back any other response, turning his attention towards the Russians.

"Contact," Grinch bellowed. "Memorial building to the north." Frost turned his attention towards the correct building and worked on eliminating enemies there, unwilling to be snapped at again like he was some recalcitrant puppy.

"Target building up ahead," came Sandman's yell. "Push forward." They pushed through the intersection without commented, Frost desperately missing the 141. By this point, there would have been mutterings about irritating Russians and someone yelling that they'd almost been hit by friendly fire and "You bastard's need to watch where you're bloody shooting!" Now, in Manhattan, there was nothing but grim silence.

"Inside the Stock Exchange," came the sharp order. "Let's move!" As Frost pressed forward, into the Stock Exchange, he couldn't help but hope that what was left of the 141, if there were any survivors, were having a better day than he was.


	3. Two

_A quick note to my guest_ _reviewer:_ Thank you so much for taking the time to review! I'm glad you enjoyed the first story and hopefully you'll enjoy this one too!

 _To all my readers:_ Updates will now be on Tuesdays and Thursdays (hopefully) instead of trying to update every single day.

* * *

 _August 18, 2009_

 _CIA Safehouse, Northern Georgia_

 _Simon "Ghost" Riley_

* * *

Shadows traced across the ceiling of the room, sunlight filtering in despite the heavy curtains that had been drawn closed in order to allow the occupants to rest and heal. Or at least attempt to rest. None of them were sleeping well after what they'd experienced, nor were they likely too for a long time.

Archer and Scarecrow had given up on sleep about an hour ago, wandering off to find their surprise rescuers and gather what information they could. The two were the least injured out of the remaining members of the 141 who'd stormed Makarov's safehouse and Ghost, who'd struggled with sleep long before Shepherd had betrayed them, knew the two had taken it upon themselves to keep watch over their injured comrades. He'd feigned sleep for most of the night, letting Archer and Scarecrow do as they would. Ghost was no psychologist. If watching over their injured comrades made his packmates feel better, Ghost wasn't going to argue about it.

Roach was twitching restlessly in his sleep, whimpering like a frightened puppy, from his position on Ghost's left. The agent who'd stabilized him had put him on some pretty good pain medication, but apparently it did nothing to keep the nightmares away. Mason, on Ghost's right, was still except for his breathing but the lieutenant doubted that the younger man was actually sleeping. His earlier periods of sleep had been punctuated with pleas in a mixture of Spanish and English with the occasional Russian word thrown in. That he was so peaceful now likely meant that he was wide awake and simply pretending to sleep. Still Ghost didn't feel like calling Mason out of it.

In all honesty, he had mixed feelings towards the newcomer. Part of him was furious with Mason for not voicing his suspicions about Shepherd. If they'd known what Mason had, Ozone might have been able to go home to his wife and daughter. If they'd known, Toad might still be breathing and spotting for Archer. If they'd known, the 141 might still be in one piece instead of scattered and hiding.

The other part of him was worried. Mason had been just shy of falling apart during the siege of Makarov's safehouse, hands trembling outside of his control. He'd held it together when Shepherd had attempted to kill them but had panicked when he'd come to not long after their rescue had arrived. Mason's mental state had already been questionable due to his earlier mission in Zakhaev International Airport and Ghost doubted the events at Makarov's safehouse had helped him any.

Roach let out a panicked sounding whine, breaking Ghost out of his thoughts, and tried to jolt upright only to let out a cry of pain, slumping back down on the mattress. The young soldier was gasping for breath, panic clear across the bond he and Ghost now shared. "You're safe," Ghost reassured him, keeping his emotions as calm as possible. After a minute, Roach began to calm, relaxing into his bed.

"Sorry," Roach muttered, burrowing into the blankets as best he could in humiliation.

"Not something to apologize for," Mason slurred out before Ghost could say anything, sounding exhausted.

"My issues shouldn't be keeping you two up," Roach mumbled, half hiding his face in his pillow.

"Pretty sure neither of us was actually sleeping," Mason replied but Roach didn't feel reassured. His emotions were still in turmoil from the nightmare and, despite the fact that he was genuinely trying to be helpful, Mason wasn't helping.

Ghost breathed out and slowly forced himself upright, ignoring the bolt of agony his wound sent racing through him at the movement. The lieutenant had experienced far worse during his time in the military and had long ago learned how to work through the pain. The CIA safehouse they were in wasn't meant to house as many people as it was, but somehow a couple of the agents had managed to get several mattresses into the same room after Ghost had refused to allow his team to be separated. Now he pulled his over next to Roach's so the young soldier was within arm's reach. Then he carefully threaded his fingers through the younger wolf's hair in silent reassurance to his newest packmate that he wasn't alone.

Roach squirmed a little before relaxing slowly, eyes drifting mostly closed, his breathing evening out. Minutes later he was drifting back to sleep, leaving Mason and Ghost in silence. Turning his head and allowing only his eyes to shift so he could see the newcomer to the 141 clearly despite the shadows. The younger man's hazel eyes were stubbornly open despite the exhaustion clearly hanging over him. Ghost frowned, knowing that if Mason wasn't as close to healthy as he could possibly be then it would get people killed on their next mission. Unfortunately, Ghost wasn't even sure how to start that particular conversation. He wasn't the best with emotional issues to start with, and he didn't have anything connecting him with Mason. With the other remaining 141 members, Ghost had a shared pack bond from which he could judge emotions that could give him insight into what they were going through. Mason was different.

The newest member of the 141 was human, although his little display when Shepherd had attempted to kill them was interesting, to say the least. There was no bond between himself and Ghost, nothing to clue the lieutenant in about what he was thinking and feeling. Trying to figure out how to even start a conversation about Mason's current mental health felt like trying to decide which direction to step when standing in the middle of a minefield. It was probably best to let someone else handle this situation. Someone Mason would be more willing to talk to.

The minutes dragged by, Roach's breathing remaining steady and even while Mason stubbornly forced his eyes to remain open. As the silence dragged on, Ghost watched the younger soldier's eyelids steadily slide further closed until he gave up the battle, slipping into an uneasy, tense sleep. At least he was sleeping, which was more Ghost could say for himself.

Aware of the fact that lack of sleep would eventually damage even the most seasoned soldier's reaction times, especially if said soldier was injured and attempting to heal, the lieutenant worked on slowly relaxing, allowing his eyes to close. Beside him, Roach's breath hitched a little before calming once more and Mason's breathing, despite his tense demeanor, was slow and even. The sounds helped relax him further, reassuring him that his teammates were safe, and he began to drift, just on the edge of sleep. He was almost gone when he became aware of the door opening.

Slowly, without changing his breathing pattern, Ghost raised his eyelids so he could see the shadow moving into the room. It took him mere seconds to recognize the movement and scent, allowing him to relax fully again. Archer settled somewhere on Mason's right in almost complete silence, likely trying not to rouse his recovering teammates from their much needed rest. When Ghost lifted heavy eyelids to scan the room once more before he slept, he caught sight of Archer sitting with his back towards his teammates, watching the door.

Scarecrow's low voice was what roused Ghost from a relatively peaceful slumber. The last of the surviving members of Ghost's team was leaning heavily against the doorway conferring softly with Archer. Roach was awake as well, staring almost blankly at the ceiling, and Ghost ruffled the younger wolf's already sleep mussed hair before sitting up. Roach grumbled at him, batting away his hand, but turned his head to watch the proceedings as Ghost caught Scarecrow's eye. "Any news?" the lieutenant questioned, keeping his voice low in the hope that he wouldn't rouse Mason.

"The 141 has been disavowed," Scarecrow rasped, exhaustion hanging over him like a thick blanket. "And Shepherd's body is being shipped home to be buried with full honors. Otherwise, nothing." He looked like he was moments from falling asleep where he was standing and his eyes were drifting shut when Mason jolted upright with a strangled cry. Mason's chest heaved for a moment as he struggled for air before calming slowly, the wild panic fading from his eyes.

"Want to talk about it?" Archer asked, twisting around so he could look at the younger soldier. Mason shook his head once, slowly laying back down as if he was half afraid of the floor dropping out from under him. The sniper shook his head at the refusal and then met Ghost's eyes saying, "We might as well rest while we can. Nikolai will be here in a couple hours to collect us, and we won't get a chance to sleep very often after that."

Ghost nodded, relaxing back on to his makeshift bed, and added, "The two of you as well. You're no good to any of us sleep deprived."

"Well what do you know," Scarecrow mused from his position by the doorway. "He does have a heart buried somewhere."

"I'll bury you next to it if you don't get some rest," Ghost threatened easily, the amusement Scarecrow could feel over the bond tempering the harsh response.

"Yes sir," came the exhausted slur and only then did Ghost close his eyes, satisfied that he'd done all he could, for now.


	4. Three

_August 18, 2009_

 _New York Stock Exchange, New York City_

 _Cameron "Sandman" Harris_

* * *

He had to admit, he'd been less than pleased when command had assigned Team Metal a new FNG in the middle of all out war. The team had still be reeling from the death of Rocket, and the last thing they needed was a newcomer to Delta trying to learn their methods while in the middle of the war zone New York had become. Especially when everyone could smell that the newcomer was a recently changed wolf. Orders may have been orders, but that didn't mean Sandman or the others had to be happy about them.

The two Delta teams regrouped in the Stock Exchange, Grizzly saying, "We'll secure the lobby while you hit the trading floor."

"Roger that," Sandman replied. "Metal, let's roll."

Frost, Truck, and Grinch headed after him without comment, hurrying up the escalators that led to the trading floor.

"Contact," Truck yelled in warning just as more Russians came into view.

"Charge to contact," Sandman ordered. "Let's keep moving."

"Providing cover fire," Grinch hollered in response, falling back just a little so he could do just that. "Move up."

"Go!" Sandman barked, pleased to see that Truck and Frost were already moving.

"Gotcha covered," Grinch added reassuringly, snickering a little at Truck's amused sounding snort.

"Stay together," Sandman barked, prompting Grinch to move up again as they took out the rest of the Russians on trading floor. "Up top. Go, go, go!"

"On the balcony," Grinch warned.

"Hop the rail!"

"Balcony's clear," Grinch called as Frost did just that, actually tossing one of the Russians off the balcony with an annoyed look on his face. They cleared the hostiles in pursuit of them on the trading floor, Sandman scanning for a way to go further up.

It took a moment before he spotted what he'd been searching for and he ordered, "Frost, up the ladder, we're on your six!"

"Roger that," Frost called back, retreating to the ladder and stowing his weapon before scrambling up the ladder. Sandman followed when the younger man was far enough up, knowing that Grinch and Truck would follow. Team Metal, for the most part, operated in relative silence, which had made Frost's snide little comment earlier the combination of startling and irritating that it had been. He'd noticed that, aside from acknowledgement of orders, the newcomer hadn't spoke he'd been reprimanded.

Sandman slipped out of the entrance just after Frost, who had ducked for cover from a Russian Hind, the gunner just looking for someone to shoot. "Keep moving," Sandman ordered. "The jamming system is up on the second tier." Frost nodded once in acknowledgement and headed for the second level. "Frost, put thermite on the jammer's power supply," he called after the younger man. "We'll cover." Sandman, along with Grinch and Truck, took out the Russians blocking Frost's way, leaving the young man free to destroy the jammer.

"Clear," Grinch called, just in case Frost hadn't noticed the Russians falling left and right around him, and Truck snorted.

"I think he can see that for himself, Grinch," Truck muttered and Grinch huffed. "Thermite's in place. Clear the blast radius!"

"Burn it Frost," Sandman yelled as soon as Frost was clear and the younger man hit the trigger obeidently.

"It's coming down," Truck yelled triumphantly.

"Adios," Grinch added with a pleased smirk.

"Overlord, this is Metal 0-1," Sandman reported as the tower crashed to the ground below. "Target neutralized. Do you read me?"

Almost instantly, after Sandman's report, radio chatter broke out, different parties called for assistance. "Roger 0-1," Overlord's voice said above all the chatter. "All systems operational. We're sending a Black Hawk to your location for exfil, ETA 3 minutes."

"Roger," Sandman replied. "We're standing by."

Yelling from a building across the street had his head snapping around to focus on Russian's pouring into every available space. "Contact," Grinch yelled in warning and they all ducked for cover as the Russian's opened fire.

"ISR is back online," Overlord announced in their ears. "We are detecting multiple hostiles on the rooftops in your area. You now have OPCON of a fully armed Predator."

"Frost establish an uplink with the Predator and buy us some time."

"On it," came the absent sounding response, Frost already bent over the tablet that would allow him to control the Predator.

The pause afterwords was agonizingly long and Sandman snapped, "Frost, they just chopped us a Predator! Use it!"

"I'm working on it," Frost snapped in reply, sounding half panicked. "It's been a while since I've used one of these. Normally Roach..." He trailed off, voice taking on a melancholy note. Then he cursed, whacked something on the tablet, and the AGM roared out of the sky to land on the Russians on the building across from them. "Got it!"

"Hit 'em again," Sandman ordered, rising up with Grinch and Truck to provide covering fire. He could analyze Frost's mutterings later, when they didn't have Russians trying to kill them. A second blast cleared out most of the Russians in the area but more trouble was already on its way.

"Hind incoming," Sandman yelled in warning. "Knock it out of the sky."

"On it," Frost yelled and a moment later the Hind was in a tailspin.

"Nice shot," Grinch yelled appreciatively and Sandman thought he saw a brief grin curl on to Frost's face at that, which was more emotion than he'd seen from the newcomer since Frost had been assigned to Metal.

The Black Hawk arrived moments later, hovering just at the edge of the rooftop. "Here's our exfil," Sandman yelled. "Load up."

"Roger that," Grinch called back. "Let's get outta here."

They climbed on board the Black Hawk the pilot saying, "Confirm, four Eagles on board, exfil complete."

The vehicle moved away from the rooftop, rising slowly and Sandman called, "Hold on, we're going vertical. Multiple contacts, lower rooftop. Frost, get on it!" Frost grabbed the minigun and sent a spray of bullets in the right direction, mowing down Russians left and right.

"Metal 0-1, standby for new mission directive, over," Overlord announced in their ears.

"Roger Overlord. Send it."

"We have multiple Russian war ships near our ports," came the reply. "We sent the SEALs to assault the command vessel. Proceed to New York Harbor to assist."

"Copy your last," Sandman replied, expecting that to be the end of it. It wasn't.

"Metal 0-1, be advised. We're seeing multiple enemy rotor-wings in your airspace."

"Enemy bird, incoming," Truck yelled at almost the exact same moment as a Hind came into view by a half finished building. A missile warning started to blare from the cockpit as Frost turned the minigun towards the Hind, struggling to stay on it as the two helicopters twisted and weaved in a dangerous dance. "Stay on him, stay on him!" Truck yelled and a moment later the Hind caught fire, plummeting towards the ground below. Then their newest member turned towards the other Hind, working on bringing it down as well.

The second Hind weaved out of sight, only to return with another one and Truck yelled, "We're taking heavy fire!"

"Taking evasive action," was the pilot's harried sounding reply as Frost continued to focus on the Hinds, sending one of them plummeting towards the ground.

"Enemy bird is down," Grinch announced as the Black Hawk changed trajectory to circle the partially built skyscraper.

"Just another day in paradise," Frost muttered. He'd stopped firing the minigun for a moment, unable to get a shot, but his finger was on the trigger. Grinch snickered at the comment just as the Hind came into view again and Frost pulled the trigger again, sending a hail of bullets its way.

The Hind whirled down towards the ground, smoke pouring from it and Grinch whooped excitedly before calling, "Good work!"

Frost turned to give Grinch a quick grin and Sandman chided, "Keep watching your sectors."

He didn't put any real demanded behind the statement and just shook his head, amused, when Grinch commented, "I think we lost 'em."

"You just had to say something," Frost muttered suddenly, muscles going tense, and Sandman directed his gaze outward, away from what was left of his pack after Rocket's death, to see another Hind rising out of nowhere.

"Shit," he cursed. "Enemy Hind."

"Hold on," the pilot yelled in warning. "Banking left!"

The Black Hawk swerved sharply around a building as Frost struggled to get the Hind in his sights. "He's behind the building! Behind the building," Grinch yelled, clinging to whatever hand hold he'd found right before the pilot had banked.

"Frost, can you get a bead on him?" Sandman barked, added his voice to the fray. "Fire!" The under construction building came into view again and Frost took a chance, spraying through the open spaces. Enough bullets connected that it sent the Hind into a tailspin, but the Russian helicopter abruptly plummeted towards their Black Hawk at an alarming speed.

"Look out!" Truck shouted just behind the Hind's tail collided with the Black Hawk, sending them spinning.

"We're hit, we're hit!" Sandman called towards the pilot, trying to gather his bearings in the spinning vehicle.

"Hold on," Grinch yelled, added his voice to the fray.

"Shit, we're going down," Truck growled, voice gone sharp with panic. The emotions coming from his packmates over the bond were a chaotic mess, not helping Sandman's concentration, and anything not tied down well enough was flying about inside the Black Hawk.

"I've still got pressure in the pedals," the pilot yelled breathlessly. "Come on, you son of a bitch!"

The Black Hawk's spinning slowed for a moment as a building loomed perilously near and Sandman's eyes locked on the minigun, Frost clinging to it and struggling to pull himself inside the still falling vehicle. Sandman cursed under his breath at the sight, knowing the last thing he wanted to do was deal with General Hardison, who'd been the one to dump the newcomer into Team Metal. "I know you didn't like the kid, but did you have to kill him?" the man would say, shaking his head disapprovingly. Sandman had a job that put him into dangerous situations at a regular basis. He didn't need to deal with Hardison's negativity in his life as well.

That in mind, Sandman managed to find a new grip and lunge forward, managing to get a grip on Frost's uniform to haul him back into the Black Hawk. The newcomer's chest was heaving but his teeth were bared in an almost feral grin, eyes bright. "Torque feels okay," the pilot called as the Black Hawk leveled off. "Tail rotor effective, hydraulics holding. Collective pitch sat'. Fuel at seventy percent."

"Overlord, this is 0-1," Sandman reported, releasing his grip on the shoulder of Frost's uniform. "We're enroute to the harbor, over."

"Roger 0-1," Overlord's voice responded as the Black Hawk turned towards New York Harbor. "The skies are clear. Good luck, out."

In the relative silence that followed Grinch turned a wicked grin towards the newcomer. "That enough excitement to drive you off yet, newbie?"

"Same shit, different day," was Frost's dry response, complete with a wide smirk.

"What boot camp did they pull you from?" Grinch demanded, eyes sharpening as he leaned forward so he was in Frost's space. It was a basic intimidation technique and, judging by the way Frost's muscles were bunched, it was working. Sandman watched the newcomer's hands slide off the minigun and bunch into tight fists, jaw clenching. Briefly he considered letting the situation escalate. Frost wasn't pack and the side of Sandman that was wolf saw no problems with a brawl resulting in the newcomer toppling out of the Black Hawk to meet an untimely end on the ground below. He knew better than to allow that to happen. The paperwork alone would be horrendous.

"Settle down," Sandman called, staring pointedly at Grinch who backed off with a shrug and an unashamed grin. Truck snorted at that, shaking his head at his fellow packmate, while Frost relaxed his hands, shooting a sour look in Grinch's direction. Sandman turned his stern glare on the newcomer, warning him silently not to cause any trouble. That was the last thing he needed to deal with in the middle of this mess.

Chatter broke out over the comms and Sandman turned his attention to that, knowing Truck would keep Grinch from accidentally pushing the new guy out of the Black Hawk. "Good work, Sandman," Overlord was saying. "We've regained air dominance over Manhattan and pushed the front line back to the river."

"What's our next target," Sandman replied. Now wasn't the time to enjoy the praise. He and the remainder of his pack could bask in the knowledge of a job well done when this was all over with.

"The Russian command vessel is an Oscar-II submarine carrying enough cruise missiles to level the entire Eastern seaboard," Overlord informed him.

"Roger. What's the mission?"

"Infiltrate the vessel, take over the bridge, then turn the weapons against their own fleet," Overlord replied. "I need you to link up with the SEALs and get it done. Good luck." Sandman nodded even though Overlord likely couldn't see him and then turned his attention to his team.

"Kit up, boys," he ordered and Grinch grinned eagerly at him. Grinch was always happiest when they were running headlong into danger. Even Rocket's tragic death hadn't put a damper on Grinch's enthusiasm for the battlefield.

"Where's our infil point?" Grinch asked, bouncing a little on his heels as his fingers moved to make sure all his gear was hooked on properly.

"Brooklyn Battery Tunnel," Sandman replied, checking his own gear.

"I thought it collapsed," Truck commented.

"It did," Sandman replied with a slight smirk. If the Russians thought a collapsed tunnel was going to stop a Delta Force then they were in for a huge shock. Team Metal was ready to make the Russians regret ever thinking about attacking the Eastern seaboard.


	5. Four

_Author's Note:_ So I'm back, at least for the moment. There will be another chapter for this story on Tuesday, though I can't promise one by next Thursday, but I'm hoping to get this story going again. Thank you for your patience, and the my Guest reviewer from last chapter, I'm glad you're enjoying the story so far!

* * *

 _August 18, 2009_

 _Loyalist Safehouse, Northern India_

 _Yuri Alkaev_

* * *

The Little Bird kicked up dust as it came to rest on the dry ground and Yuri lifted a hand to shield his eyes, letting his lit cigarette drop to smoulder on the ground. Since Nikolai had left to retrieve Captain Price's men, the urge to smoke in order to alleviate his lingering worry had grown stronger. Ordinarily he would have gotten rid of the urge through honing his formidable skills but he had been forbidden to do so by Inessa and he held enough respect for her to obey that command. That had left smoking.

The dust died down as Nikolai shut off the Little Bird but Yuri kept his distance, allowing others to brush by him to help unload Captain Price's injured comrades. He watched it all with an analytical eye, searching for any sign of danger. He knew that Makarov would be trying to kill him and years working first as a Spetznaz agent, then later as one of Zakhaev's men, Yuri knew well the kind of resources that his enemy could draw upon. Makarov had eyes everywhere. He would find Yuri; it was only a matter of time.

"Have you been worried, my friend?" Nikolai called as he closed the space between them to clap a hand on Yuri's arm. The former Spetznaz agent swept his gaze across his old friend, searching for injury before crushing his still smouldering cigarette below his boot.

"Makarov has many eyes," he replied darkly and Nikolai smiled knowingly at him.

"He is not as all knowing as you believe." Yuri shook his head at Nikolai's optimism. He could not believe that Makarov did not have eyes and ears within the safehouse. It would be foolish to do so, and the former Spetznaz agent was far from foolish. It was how he had survived this long doing the questionable things he had done under Zakhaev's command. "Yuri, you are going to do Makarov's job for him should you worry yourself to death."

Yuri shrugged off Nikolai's concerned hand on his shoulder and stepped away, footsteps raising clouds of dust around his boots. His friend fell into step with him, unbothered by Yuri's foul mood. As he walked, he reached a hand into his pocket and removed a carton of cigarettes. He offered them to Nikolai, who shook his head, and then removed one for himself before slipping the carton away. Instead of removing a lighter, Yuri scanned his surroundings before lighting the cigarette off a flickering orange flame which rested on the edge of his fingernail. He took a drag, blowing the smoke out into the evening sky. "His roots stretch far under the ground Nikolai," he said at last, turning his gaze to his friend for a moment. "It would be unwise to underestimate his reach."

"The Loyalist cause is free of Makarov's influence," Nikolai reassured him.

"That is a foolish assumption," Yuri replied flatly, taking another drag on his cigarette. "To believe that Makarov has no informants inside your Loyalist ranks is childish. It will lead to nothing but death for your and yours."

"And you do not consider yourself a member of our resistance?"

"I am a soldier," Yuri said, voice cold. "I fight alongside you but I will not call myself one of your own." He took a drag on his cigarette and blew out the smoke in a slow exhale. "I cannot." Nikolai clapped a hand on Yuri's shoulder, squeezing slightly before turning back the way he had come.

Yuri finished his cigarette before returning to the safehouse. With the newcomers, the safehouse seemed to be swarming with activity. It set Yuri on edge, made his jaw tense and his fingers reach for a weapon he didn't currently wear. One of the men paused and informed Yuri that Inessa had requested his presence. The former Spetznaz agent nodded once in acknowledgement and mad his way through the sea of Loyalists towards Inessa's domain.

The room was full, new cots laid out for the wounded, and Yuri scanned the figures for any sign of trouble before stepping inside. Eyes snapped over to him, Inessa's sliding smoothly back to her work while the others watched. Nikolai, who had been keeping watch over Soap, smiled when he entered. It was the only friendly expression turned on him. The other conscious gazes were full of suspicion, something that Yuri was growing used to. Many of the Loyalists already knew of Yuri's past and believed he was still Makarov's man planted within their ranks. It was a justified fear. Should Makarov prove to have a man inside their ranks in the safehouse they could all be wiped out within hours.

"Sit," Inessa ordered, gesturing to a chair the moment she finished with her current patient. Yuri did as he was bid, ignoring Nikolai's amused gaze, and removed his shirt when she motioned for him to do so. His wound was healing and, after a brief but thorough examination of it, Inessa nodded her approval. "It is good to know you can occasionally follow instructions," she said, re-wrapping the injury.

"Only when it suits him," Nikolai joked, smiling at the woman. Inessa tutted under her breath, turning her attention to her next patient as Yuri leveled a scowl in his friend's direction.

"Some orders are best left unfulfilled," Yuri replied darkly, thinking of an airport full of innocent people screaming in fear and pain just before they met their untimely end.

"Dark thoughts, my friend," Nikolai chided gently.

"For dark times."

"Perhaps," Nikolai agreed. "But there must be light for one to see a shadow." Yuri shook his head but knew it was useless to argue. Nikolai looked towards the future with hope but Yuri kept his eyes fixed on the present and the problems it presented him with. The result was two opposing viewpoints that could not be reconciled with simple conversation. Attempting to do so would be a waste of time.

Yuri rose, pulling his shirt back on, as a voice demanded, "Who is he?"

"Yuri Alkaev," Nikolai said, lifting his hands in a peaceful gesture. "A friend, Lieutenant Riley."

"A friend?" the lieutenant questioned skeptically over the beeping of a heart monitor.

"An old friend," Nikolai replied with a smile. "Though not a particularly cheerful one." Then Nikolai turned his attention towards the man he and Price called Soap, who was attached to the beeping heart monitor. Yuri turned to leave, not comfortable around so many people he neither knew nor trusted, and saw Captain Price in the doorway. The man nodded warily at Yuri and then stepped around him, heading towards Soap. "His vital signs are still weak," Nikolai informed Price. "Soap won't last without proper attention."

"He's a hard bastard," was Price's response. "Trust me, he'll make it."

Yuri shook his head at the sentiment, but didn't linger to debate it. In his experience, the Russian had never seen sheer force of will keep a person alive. Either the blood flow was staunched long enough for the wound to be treated or a blood loss or positioning of the wound carried them into death. In his opinion, either Soap would live or die. There was little anyone could do to influence that. Perhaps if Yuri had placed a little more stock in the faith his grandmother had lauded, getting down on old, arthritic knees to pray every night before the cross hanging from the mantle in her home, he might believe in something of that sentiment, but he did not.

He hadn't gotten far from the room when one of the patchwork alarms the Loyalists had set up all over the safehouse and perimeter began screeching. People poured into the narrow hallway, most of them holding weapons, and Yuri was forced to press his back against the wall to avoid being trampled on. A few Loyalists shot him wary, angry looks as if they suspected him of leading Makarov's men to their doorstop. They were incorrect only in the assumption that he had done so on purpose.

" _Yuri!_ " he heard Nikolai bellow, and he turned back the way he'd come, forcing his body through the frantic mob of people to step inside the makeshift hospital. He was in time to hear his friend say, "Only man I know who hates Makarov more than you."

"They'll use the ridgeline to fly in from the north," Price said, ignoring Yuri's entrance.

"How do you know?" Nikolai questioned, turning his gaze towards his friend. Yuri nodded, signalling that he was fine with assisting in this effort, and Nikolai turned back to Price.

"It's what I would do," the Brit said darkly.

Inessa was shooing anyone able to stand on their own out of the room. "Evac chopper is around back," she was barking, flapping her hands sternly at them. "Go, go. You are no good here." Her English was rough but effective and, with a nod from Price, the newcomers from early morning cleared out. Once they were gone, the woman bustled back towards Soap, motioning Yuri over with a flick of her head. He worked silently beside her, doing only as directed, while she worked on a stronger patch job for Soap's wound.

"We need to get Soap to the chopper," Price barked, as if trying to speed up the process, and Inessa gave him a supremely chilling look as the wounded man stirred, opening bleary eyes and flailing a weak around about before his hand closed tightly on the loose fabric of Yuri's second-hand shirt. The Russian froze, supremely uncomfortable with the contact. Since he was a child, his touch had been something to be feared rather than accepted. Things had smoldered at a brush of his fingertips, and had burned when he had grown old enough to be angry about his forced isolation. Nikolai had been the only one brave enough to step near an angry year mate who could cradle fire in his bare palms without being burned, and though his friendship had helped, Yuri had never stopped expecting someone to die at his touch.

Oblivious to his distress, or perhaps ignoring it, Inessa continued her work. A flapping sound, almost like the rotors of a helicopter, reached Yuri's ears but he could not turn with Soap's unfocused eyes locked on his own. "What is that?" he heard Nikolai question with trepidation, but he could not find the words to answer as bleary eyes drifted shut. The trust being placed in his hands with that single gesture was not something he had experience before.

The Mi-28 Havoc crashed through a wall, spraying bricks and glass everywhere. Yuri bent his body over Soap's almost automatically, shielding him from possible further damage. As the last if the debris fell to the floor, Yuri stood back upright and shifted so he could face the Havoc, the hand on his shirt falling away. The former Spetznaz agent didn't recognize the man piloting the Havoc, but that meant little to him. It was impossible for one to know every one of Makarov's people on sight. There were simply too many for the human mind to store.

Yuri lifted a hand, looking the pilot straight in the eyes, and snapped his fingers. For a moment, nothing happened. The pilot looked rather puzzled by the dramatic gesture, as if he had expected to be instantly smote by lightning. Then, just as he was relaxing, the entire Havoc burst into flames. Yuri refused to let himself look away from the man's terrified eyes until the helicopter fell from sight to crash on the ground below. Once he would have flinched away from doing anything like this, refusing to become the monster people had thought he was when he had been young. War had given him little choice but the utilize any abilities he could.

"What the bloody hell was that?" Price demanded, turning a disapproving scowl on Yuri as if the Russian had grown horns and a tail. Yuri ignored the look. He'd been having gazes such as those settle on him since he was a child and had learned long ago not to let them wound him.

"A gift," Nikolai replied, his accent thickening with his disapproval.

"Help me," Inessa ordered at the same time, not bothering with English. "We must get him ready for travel."

"Tell me what to do," Yuri replied, turning away from the brewing argument to follow her instructions. They worked in relative silence, Inessa occasionally barking out instructions as sounds of a firefight began to filter towards them. "Perhaps I should go," Yuri suggested when the work was almost finished. "I would be of more use out there than in here."

Price had already left, convinced to buy Inessa more more time minutes ago by Nikolai, who stood watch. "Yes, go," Inessa ordered with an absent wave of her hand. "Injure more people." Her tone was mildly disapproving of the whole concept but Yuri ignored her, wiping bloody hands on his pants before heading to the door.

"Be safe my friend," Nikolai called but Yuri did not take the time to acknowledge him. Instead he jogged to the weapons room, snatching up an AK-47. He had no particular fondness for the weapon at hand, he would rather kill from a distance than do the work up close and personal, but it would do.

"They've breached the courtyard," he heard Price bellow as he stepped cautiously out on the front porch of the safehouse, taking in the sight of Makarov's men pouring through the front gate. "Take them down!"

"We've moving Soap," Nikolai bellowed from above and Yuri calmly opened fire on the enemy. Years of practice had made his aim deadly and man after man fell under a deadly hail of bullets. Time faded away and the Russian focused on making every shot count, knowing he had a limited number of clips and there were no supply drops coming.

"Courtyard's clear," one of the Loyalists yelled and Yuri took the time to reload, dropping the empty clip calmly at his feet and stepping forward with the others. A UAV swept overhead as they reached the gate, wrecking any chance they had of remaining anonymous. A hand offered a comm and Yuri turned to see Vitaly offering the connection. He nodded at the young man and took it, placing it on his ear.

"Russian drone overhead," Price was saying. "We're outnumbered and outgunned. We need some heavier fire power!"

"Or a miracle," Nikolai suggested slyly, obviously knowing that Yuri could hear him.

"It is not a miracle," Yuri returned sourly, shooting one of the braver enemy soldiers who had stuck his head around a corner at the wrong time.

"My friend, getting you to do anything you do not wish to is a miracle," Nikolai replied, the statement forcing a wry smile on to Yuri's face for a moment. He blew out a soft breath and glanced to his side, seeing Vitaly and the man next to him both nod.

"I'm taking point," he said, making his decision. "The rest of you, cover me." He didn't want for Price to protest. Instead he settled the strap of his AK over his back, reached deep inside the well of anger buried deep inside him, and stepped forward. Civilians darted out of the way and Yuri ignored them. Instead he focused on the wave of people whose heat signatures he could feel. His curse had been growing in the past few years, stretching out in ways he hadn't expected.

Vitaly, Price, and other Loyalists took out the scattering of soldiers as Yuri focused on a building ahead of them, snapping his fingers and watching as flames licked up the sides. A few of the enemy on the second floor jumped from windows only to be shot down by Loyalists and they pressed easily forward. The comms had fallen silent at the display. Most of the men and women who had joined the Loyalists were utterly ordinary. They were used to seeing extraordinary displays come to kill them from the other side, for Makarov seemed to collect unusually talented people like honey attracted flies, but unused to having such power on their side. If it had been anyone other than Yuri wielding such power, there would have been encouraging cheers. Since he was the one doing the casting, there was only wary silence.

As they continued to move forward Yuri was forced to turn his focus towards choppers and other assorted aerial vehicles, allowing the others to focus on foot soldiers. The effort to keep things burning fast enough and hot enough to wreck them was making his skin prickle. Despite the blaze of Indian sunlight still streaming down on his shoulders, he felt chilled to the bone. He tried pulling heat from others to help fuel the flames, tugging at the warmth of the mass of enemies the others were keeping at bay, but it only slowed the chill that was steadily stretching across him.

"How much further?" he rasped out, ears echoing with the sound of his pulse. The world felt fuzzy and he stumbled a bit, Vitaly hurrying over to steady him.

"Almost there, my friend," Nikolai said. "Just let go and focus on getting to the chopper. You've done enough." Yuri breathed out and released the fire as best he could, struggling to untangling himself from the hungry blazes that licked up walls and consumed flesh and bone almost as easily as wood and plant life.

His vision began to clear as he did so and he was able to support himself, allowing Vitaly to focus on the enemy once more. "Run to the chopper," Price bellowed. "Go, go!" Yuri ran with the others, exhaustion keeping him at the back of the group. He pushed on, feet hitting a rooftop just as the rest the team piled on the Little Bird.

" _Look out!_ " Price yelled but it was already too late. A missile hit the rooftop, sending Yuri and several tons of debris hurtling down an embankment and into a fast flowing river. The water was cold despite the prevalent August heat that had characterized this month so far, sinking deep under Yuri's skin. He struggled to force numb limbs to move properly, already having been chilled when he dropped into the water.

Yuri managed to force his head out of the water with a gasp, wrapping stiff fingers around and tree root. He used that hold to pull himself out of the water, gasping and coughing in an attempted to clear his lungs. He could hear the whir of the Little Bird's rotors above him but he was too tired to keep his eyes open any longer. Instead he let his head rest on the grass as Nikolai's voice said, "There he is! There's Yuri!"

"Good, we'll need him," Price said. "We're going after Makarov."

Darkness was pulling Yuri into a dreamless sleep with strong arms as he heard a new voice with a distinctive Scottish accent ask, "Who the bloody hell's Yuri?"


End file.
